


The Skills of a Warrior

by Persephone



Series: Sons of Troy [8]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Insecurity, M/M, Sibling Incest, Touching, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A contest: to prove which is more effective: the gifts of a goddess, or the skills of a warrior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hector was grinning.

Paris blinked several times before accepting the fact.

The throne room was filled as it had not been since the days before the war began. Ecstatic Trojans had followed Hector and his guard from the moment they’d entered the city gates, all the way into the presence of the King.

Everyone wanted to hear the amazing retelling of the day’s battle as Hector would tell it to the King, and they sat and stood anywhere they could find the space. The cavernous room hummed with excited whispers. Priam sat in splendid robes, smiling and nodding at his great warrior son, pleased beyond words.

Paris stood in one of the doorways behind and to the left the throne. Around him were some servants, who seemed somewhat uneasy at his being there with them. But he had arrived late to the audience, and did not want to go into the throne room and draw attention to himself.

So he stood in relative privacy, and watched Hector in stunned silence, unable to remember the last time he saw him like this.

“… pressing them _all_ the way back to their ships!” Hector was saying. “And they flung their arms up to the deathless gods, each man crying out a prayer.” The room roared with laughter. “And we would have destroyed them all… but alas. Night came too soon.”

“But a _rout_ you say, my son,” Priam slapped his armrest, smiling broadly.

And, even though this would be the third time he would confirm it, Hector grinned widely and replied, “A _complete_ rout, my King.”

The gathered Trojans erupted in cheers and applause, thrilled by the show their Prince and King were putting on for them. Backs were patted, hands shaken, embraces exchanged.

Paris stood unaware of all this. His eyes were locked on Hector, watching his dimples appear and sink into his cheeks beneath his beard, the corners of his eyes crinkle, his white teeth flash in his handsome face.

Paris felt slow heat begin to course through him.

If he gave it real thought, the last time Hector had smiled at him like that was before their fateful voyage to Sparta so long ago.

True, Hector was not in fact smiling at him _at_ this very moment, but that could be easily remedied. Hector would, after all, be staying in the city tonight.

“…as many as you wish,” Priam was saying now. “They will be driven into the fields. Ask for anything for your feast, my son, and it will be yours. Tonight we will spare nothing for the brave sons and allies of Troy!”

Again, the room erupted, and Hector, still grinning, bowed his thanks to the King and made his way through the adoring throng and out of the room.

Paris looked around as people began getting up and leaving as well. Had his father said something about Hector going back into the fields?

Paris quickly backed out of the doorway and into the hall behind him. People smiled and bowed to him, but he rushed on, trying to get to the main entrance to the throne room from which Hector would be emerging.

He made it there just as Hector came out and was surrounded by a few lieutenants.

Paris hated the presence of so many, when he wanted so badly to be alone with Hector. They pressed all around, and his patience began to wear thin. He slipped behind a pillar where less people would jostle him, and wrapped an arm around it. From behind it, he watched Hector.

A moment later, Hector turned and caught Paris’s eye over the heads of the men around him. Paris stood without breathing, waiting for Hector to smile at him too.

Hector’s smile was slow, and sweet, and gradually turned into a full grin.

Then Hector winked at him, and Paris’s heart stopped completely. He gripped the pillar tightly.

Hector had already turned back to his men, but Paris’s mind was running wild. He had never been with Hector when his brother was _happy,_ and everything in him burned for the experience.

He felt desire wrap itself around him like a robe of satin, and knew that the deity had risen.

But already Hector and his men were leaving the palace halls, heading where, Paris knew not.

He rushed back to his house, to prepare for his departure into the fields.

**********

Hector strode through the fields, clasping hands with roaring men, and, even though he wasn’t drinking, lifting goblets in toast after toast.

After their heroic fighting he had called for a much deserved feast, and ordered his men to light fires so great the glare would light up the night skies and strike fear into the hearts of their enemies.

And his father, true to his word, had sent out droves of cattle and sheep, and carts full of honeyed wine, and bread.

Some men roasted the food, others made music on instruments brought out from the city, and for once during this terrible war, the fields outside the walls were a place of happiness.

Hector felt good.

Then he looked up and saw Paris. His brother was directing two soldiers who were carrying a huge, plush double ended recliner between them. Hector could only assume that the thing – which looked completely out of place on the field – had come from his brother’s tent.

Following behind them were four more men carrying wineskins, small vats of wine and platters of fruits, and a stool.

“This is how you put our men to work? As waiting women?” Hector said, walking up to them.

“No, my lord,” one of the men quickly replied. “We are very thankful to Prince Paris for bringing fresh fruits to the feast.”

“Yes, and the finest wine!”

The first soldier nodded somewhat unsteadily. _He_ did not need any more fine wine. “It is the least we can do to set up a place for him to relax by the fires.”

Hector shook his head resignedly as the men moved along. Paris moved closer and touched his arm lightly.

“Come and join me, Hector. It has been a long time since we talked.”

Hector looked down into Paris’s face. He had not seen him since his strange ordeal at his house. Hector had had very little time to think about anything but war during the attacks on the Achaeans, but he had asked after Paris when he went to see the King earlier that evening.

All reports said he was all right, but then he had not shown up in the throne room at all, which had troubled Hector. But here he was, though Hector was not surprised to see him where there was revelry to be enjoyed.

Paris did, however, look himself again. The glow of the torch lights gleamed off his golden complexion, and left honey colored streaks in his dark curls. His face once again shone with a beauty that was difficult to look away from, and his full red lips looked moist and inviting in the light.

“What is there to talk about?” Hector finally responded, his voice thicker than it should have been.

“Nothing at all,” Paris smiled slowly, and slid his fingers up Hector’s forearm, to his elbow.

Hector swallowed, and looked around them. There were hundreds of men about, drinking, singing, wrestling, shouting. He risked nothing by sitting for a while with his brother.

He could not even say what it was he thought he was risking in the first place, but he didn’t dwell on that.

“Well…”

But Paris was already pulling him after the men. They reached the recliner which had been set up around one of the huge bonfires. Two dozen men sat around the fire on stools and on the ground.

The soldier carrying the stool had set it down next to the recliner, and a platter of fruits now sat on the stool, and a small vat of wine stood next to it. The rest of the fruits and wine disappeared into the crowd of men.

Hector tried to remain standing, but Paris pulled him down unto the recliner. He sat at its very edge, while Paris fully laid down behind him. His legs brushed Hector’s back through his shirt, but Hector ignored it.

Even before they had settled in, men crowded around and broke open the wine vats. Paris indicated with both hands to one of the men, and was handed a goblet and a wineskin.

He shook his head and handed the goblet back, and quickly pointed to a pitcher. The soldier grinned, and handed him the larger container. Paris smiled his thanks, then turned and extended the pitcher to Hector.

“Why not a goblet?” Hector frowned.

“Just take it,” Paris sighed.

Hector shook his head. “I have to—”

“I do not care.”

“And nor should _you,_ Hector Prince,” said a boisterous voice.

Hector looked up and saw Acamas, the leader of the Thracian alliance, a soldier who had played a large part in the success of their campaign.

At the moment, however, Acamas looked more like a court jester than a soldier, with that huge grin on his face.

“No cares tonight!” Acamas bellowed.

“And see, Hector,” Paris smiled, “Acamas has a _jug_.”

“But of course, my dear Prince!”

Acamas held out his jug to be filled with Paris’s wine, and then lifted it in a salute before stumbling off with his men.

Hector chuckled, and took the pitcher from Paris. The men applauded shortly, before their attention was diverted by two soldiers who had taken up a wrestling match between themselves.

Hector grinned and took a deep drink of the sweet wine. Then he immediately drained the pitcher. He closed his eyes, and missed Paris’s wide-eyed stare.

Then he felt Paris’s hand brush his as he poured more wine into his empty pitcher. Hector let him. It was not possible to say no to sweet wine from Troy, and combined with Paris’s warm hand on his, and the balmy night air, he felt too good to even try.

Paris’s laughter rang out softly, and Hector turned and looked at him as he watched the wrestling.

He knew Paris did not remember anything of the horrors he had gone through, and for that Hector was thankful. Such a complete loss of memory seemed to have allowed Paris to fully recover his spirits, with no lingering ill effects.

Yet that loss of memory meant Paris did not even understand what jeopardy he had been in. It angered Hector that the gods could play with his brother’s well being like that, toying with him for their amusement. He did not care for the games the gods delighted in playing with the lives of mortals, and he wished that the goddess would leave his brother alone, forever.

At that moment, Paris turned from laughing at the two soldiers – who had gone from wrestling each other to splashing wine into each other’s faces – and said softly so that only Hector heard, “The men seem to prefer the pleasures of Dionysus over the sport of warriors.”

Hector grunted. “For now.”

Paris turned fully and faced him. “For always, dear brother.”

“Simply because you would chose that preference,” Hector scowled, looking into his empty pitcher – when had _that_ happened – “does not mean good warriors would.”

“ _Good_ warriors?”

“Such a thing, I will never understand,” he continued as if Paris had not spoken. “That you would chose the gifts of Love over the gifts of Athena. A warrior’s skill, unsurpassed, cast aside for pleasure.”

“To each his own, brother. And do not fling the lovely gifts of the goddess in my face. There are other ways of being a man, other than being the greatest warrior.”

Then Paris’s fingers gently grasped his wrist, and pulled his hand holding the pitcher towards him again. Paris poured him more wine.

Hector looked at the dark liquid filling rapidly, and thought that perhaps he should not drink anymore. So he began shaking his head slowly, but Paris ignored him.

“And, who is to say which is more useful?”

“I say!” Hector groused.

“Well, then. _I_ say the contrary.”

“ _You_ say what you will. _I_ speak the truth. For what use is a lover’s caress when the enemy bears down on you?”

Paris hesitated slightly. Hector looked at him and waved his free hand. “Speak freely of your goddess and her exquisite gifts tonight. This wine is too good for me to care…”

Paris lowered his eyes and smiled shyly. Hector stared at his beauty, completely caught off guard. He tried hard to concentrate on what Paris was now saying.

“Any man may learn _sufficient_ skills to defend himself in battle,” Paris shrugged. “And certainly a man may learn to be a _good_ … lover…”

Hector watched in surprise as Paris’s face flushed. But he continued talking.

“But to _feel_ the mysteries of the goddess guiding you… that is another matter altogether. For when it comes to pleasure _I_ accomplish nothing less than a complete rout.”

“In every battle?” Hector murmured.

Paris coughed up his wine, but gestured that he was all right when Hector made to help him.

“In every battle, Hector,” he smiled, swallowing. “And what warrior could lay claim to such achievement? And for even the greatest warrior, each day ends and night comes. And as mortal men it is what pleasures we can clutch during night’s relief that makes the next day’s toils bearable—”

Hector slipped his tongue out and lapped at the wine sloshing in his pitcher.

Then he realized Paris had stopped talking, and looked up. Paris was smiling in delight with his mouth open, and Hector wondered why. His brow furrowed from trying to think what could be making Paris smile so. He did not remember saying—

“A contest, then.” Paris said suddenly, his smile growing wider. Hector was now confused.

“Between you and me. To prove, once and for all, which is more… effective.”

Hector snorted and slowly dropped backwards and settled against the backrest. He lifted his leg and straddled the recliner, so that he now faced Paris on the opposite side.

Paris sat up slightly, watching Hector’s movements.

When Hector settled, Paris casually straightened his legs a little, so that his feet slid closer to the heat of Hector’s crotch. Hector rested his pitcher on his chest, blissfully unaware.

“I do not need a contest to prove the effectiveness of combat skills,” he was saying, petulantly.

“You partake, or you concede.” Paris sat back against the recliner, and waited.

Hector tried to think. What would he be partaking in, anyway? Or conceding to? He felt as though he had missed a portion of the conversation altogether.

Why did he have to prove to Paris the usefulness of excellent fighting skills, when every man knew their worth? Ah! And what was the worth of great skill in _rutting_ as compared to that? _That_ , he would like to see Paris prove.

Hector frowned, worrying. He felt as though his mind was trying to warn him about something.

But the wine was making it difficult to think clearly. He had not had wine in such quantities in a very long time, and he should have stopped Paris from tipping the wineskin into his pitcher so many times. Now he feared he had drank too much.

But, truth be told, it made him happy. And he had not been happy in an even longer time.

He began to grin. He looked across at Paris, then around at the men who had now stopped their jesting, and were waiting for his answer. They had heard the word ‘contest’ and stopped everything, not even knowing what the contest was for.

“A contest it is!” Hector nodded, laughing. The men cheered.

Paris pressed his lips together, smiling only slightly, and seemed to Hector as though he was smiling from his own secret. Was there something he had missed?

But before he could inquire, Paris stood up, and walked over to a soldier, asking him to fetch weapons. The men excitedly took up good viewing positions around the fire.

The soldier returned clutching spears and swords. Paris reached for the spears.

“These are fine weapons you have,” Paris smiled slowly at the soldier. To Hector’s shock, the man blushed deeply.

Hector felt himself sitting up on the recliner. His head cleared a little, and he stood up without even swaying.

He walked around the fire, to the other side, which offered a much better view of Paris and the soldier.

But Paris was already walking away from the man. He threw two spears towards Hector, which Hector deftly caught in both hands.

“Me first,” Paris smiled, and walked into the clearing. He crooked his finger at a soldier and the man grabbed a spear and attacked, trying to catch Paris off guard.

Cheers rose, but Hector could not believe how badly Paris was fighting.

“Paris! Do not hold it so—!”

Hector growled, but forced himself to remain standing where he was, taut with irritation. Paris used to be _much_ better than this at combat. All that lazing about his house, and drinking and leisure, was eroding his skills as a warrior.

He kept shifting backwards when he should step forward. And he was letting his grip on the spear shift along its shaft, causing him to lose power on his strikes. And when he did strike, he was not putting enough power into his shoulders.

But more than all that, he was _showing_ his apprehension at the attacks, and…

Hector gritted his teeth and cursed. How could it be happening again. Discreetly, he stood there and fought the heat that had begun to flood his body. Gods above. What was it about Paris’s cowardice…

Paris’s eyes suddenly shot in his direction, and their eyes caught before Hector could look away. Hector stared at him, then lifted his arm and pointed at his already advancing opponent.

The side of Paris’s mouth lifted slightly, but still he watched Hector. And just as his opponent struck, Paris stepped to one side, and the man crashed by him harmlessly. Paris tapped his spearhead against the man’s back as he fell, and the crowd cheered.

Paris bowed, clearly enjoying the attention. He walked towards Hector, dropping his spear in the dust.

“I think I performed _sufficiently_ ,” Paris said in a low voice, smiling.

“He almost had you there for a moment. You should have been paying closer attention.”

“I was… distracted,” Paris’s eyes slid down, and Hector did not follow his gaze.

“Then you risk plenty in combat,” Hector said through his teeth.

“Are you… angry at me?” Paris asked in a hushed voice.

Hector sighed, releasing his tension. “It is quite all right. I do not wish to spoil the night’s revelry.”

“But… you _are_ upset… a little…”

Hector shook his head, even though he was. But he knew he did not fool Paris.

Then a soldier called out into the crowd, “How many men, against the might of Prince Hector?”

Hector groaned, and the men bellowed with anticipation, as two burly, identical soldiers stepped forward and grabbed weapons.

Hector shook his head, grinning. He knew these two very well. They were steeply drunk, but that was no reason to underestimate them.

“My lords,” Hector bowed, “I do not wish to injure you _both_. For I understand your mother expects her sons to—”

But they were upon him, yelling and making a racket. Hector laughed, and defended himself, and the men roared and then several more soldiers piled on top of him.

Hector could not catch his breath, he laughed so hard, and none of them was sober enough to make a good show of it. Paris would not get his contest, after all.

Hector threw aside his spears, and took on the soldiers one by one. But they all rushed at him, one grabbing him from behind by the waist, trying to lift him into the air. He planted his feet on the ground and was not budged. Another came at him from the front, and he caught him and wrestled him to the ground, still standing.

Two more came at him, but he had them on their backs before they knew it.

“This is undignified for warriors!” he laughed. “We are all too wine soaked to make good sport!”

But no one was listening to him. Finally he pinned and held down the last of the men, kneeling with one knee on his chest. Hector thought the man would choke on his own laughter, but if he released him, he would be attacked.

“Paris!” Hector called, and turned to where his brother stood. “Is this contest concluded? Have I not won?”

Paris made his way around the listing, shouting men, and stood beside Hector. Hector looked up, and his grin died on his lips.

Paris’s eyes were on fire. Hector instantly hardened, and got up off the man on the ground.

“Come with me, Hector,” Paris whispered, and turned away.

Hector stared after him. He had forgotten all about this second part of the contest. His mind had been so thoroughly occupied with the combat skills side of it…

Hector shot a glance towards the soldier on the ground, but the man was in no state to notice anything. He looked around at the men around the bonfire, but they were only getting louder and more boisterous as the night wore on. He and Paris would not be missed.

Still, he could think of many, many reasons not to walk into Paris’s tent with him. He stood indecisive, licking his lips.

Always, the memory of his last encounter with his brother was right beneath the surface of everything he did and said.

And against his will he always remembered the firm smoothness of Paris’s body beneath him, those fingers that would dig into his flesh and grip him until he utterly succumbed.

His mouth began to water. And the effect of the wine in his head was not helping. He was not drunk, but the sweet wine was pressing his thoughts together, making all sensations tingle and blend, so that everything felt and sounded delectable.

He went after Paris.

Inside Paris’s decadent, torch lit tent, there was not only a second, larger recliner, but also layers of fur and thick rugs and silk cushions. Hector shook his head. His father always saw to Paris’s comfort when his brother decided to come into the fields for the night.

Paris dragged together two thick rugs, then threw layers of fur over them. Even then, he had quite a few left piled up on the floor next to the foot of the recliner. Then he threw silk cushions down.

Hector stepped to the rugs on the floor, and Paris moved closer and leaned down to his chest, and inhaled deeply. Hector felt his cock pulse in response. He moved forward, but Paris placed his hand on his chest, shaking his head. He inclined his head towards the recliner.

Hector let himself be pushed until his was sitting on the recliner.

“Lie down, Hector,” Paris whispered. Hector laid back, and Paris drew his leg across Hector’s, straddling him. Hector breathed through his mouth and placed his hands on Paris’s golden thighs, running them all the way up, under the skirt of his robe.

Paris purred, but placed his hands over Hector’s stopping him from going any further. Hector’s grip tightened, but he left his hands where they were.

“Tear off two strips,” Paris whispered, leaning forward to balance himself on one hand over Hector.

“Of what?” Hector replied hoarsely.

“Of cloth. From my robe.”

Hector looked up into Paris’s eyes, breathing slowly. Paris’s eyelids had dropped halfway, but enigmatic secrets swirled behind them.

“What for?” he asked slowly, breathing deeply as he felt himself falling into those eyes.

“So that I may restrain you, Hector.”

Hector froze.

“Please kiss me,” Paris whispered softly, and lowered his head.

Hector turned his head away, his face burning.

He would not kiss Paris, that much of himself he could control. As it was, he could not understand how he had given so much power over himself to his brother, that he would be lying here under him, waiting to be bound. He must take back control. But his mind was not as sharp as it should be at the moment.

“Why must I be restrained for your side of the contest?” he managed in a low voice, keeping his head turned. He wanted to get up and leave, to have the strength to simply walk out of the tent.

“Because you will not behave yourself otherwise.”

Hector could hear the smile in Paris’s voice, and turned back to him.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, you must trust me.”

“But I do not.”

“So you would stop the contest before its conclusion?”

Paris smiled serenely, and to his dismay Hector felt his hands reaching for the bottom of Paris’s robe.

He was a warrior, he could not imagine leaving a task, a contest uncompleted. And certainly not out of _fear_ of his brother.

He watched Paris lick his lips as the sound of his robe tearing in Hector’s grip filled the air.

Hector held up two black strips of brocade, and Paris took them from him.

Then Hector felt a tug on the thick braided rope around his waist. Immediately his hand moved and covered Paris’s, and Hector shook his head, for he realized at that moment that he had never permitted Paris to undressed him.

Paris withdrew his hand, and Hector tugged on the rope hard enough to undo its knot. He undressed himself, lifting his body with Paris on top, to pull the robe from around him.

Paris then leaned down, so that his chest brushed Hector’s, and held Hector’s arm against the leg of the recliner.

Hector looked down at Paris’s curls, and could not stop himself from breathing deeply of his scent. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed his moan.

“Hurry up,” he warned deeply. “I am losing my patience for this game.”

Paris sat up quickly and looked at him. “Are you getting… annoyed at me?” he asked softly.

Hector felt frustrated with himself. He had agreed to go along with the contest, and Paris had been patient with the combat side of it. He should show more patience, and finish what he started.

“It is all right, continue.”

Paris secured both his wrists, then stood up and took a step backwards. His eyes roamed all over Hector’s body, deep and dark and hungry.

“You look like a chained Titan,” he whispered, and, as if he couldn’t help himself, began to move forward again.

He bent and placed his hands on either side of Hector and dropped his head down to his chest, his mouth nearly touching skin.

“And the heart inside your chest is never daunted.”

Hector’s skin tightened as Paris’s breath brushed it, and his realized he had been holding his breath, waiting for Paris’s mouth to touch his body. But it never did.

Paris stood up, smiled beguilingly, and walked out of the tent.

Hector twisted his head to stare after him, confused. After a few moments, he began to writhe impatiently. Even if he was inclined to call after Paris, he would not be heard over the din of the feasting outside. And he was certainly not inclined to call after Paris.

There was rustling, and Hector heard the flap of the tent open and then fall back in place.

Then he heard sounds that made his heart stop. All traces of inebriation left his head, and suddenly he was sharply lucid.

Heavy breaths, a subdued moan, whispers. Hector’s heart kicked in his chest, and he twisted his head to see.

Coming around to his side, was Paris… and another man.

Hector stared in utter shock as the man fervently kissed Paris’s neck, and pawed at him, his hands shaking all over Paris’s body, pushing his robe aside. They stumbled farther into the room and sank unto the layers of fur and rugs to the side of where Hector lay bound.

Paris was on top of him, and the man pushed his robe off him, pressing his fingers into every inch of Paris’s body, running his hands everywhere. He was moaning plaintively, desperately, as if it he had never in his life felt anything like this.

Hector’s mind refused to accept what he was seeing.

His recliner was at an angle to where they laid on the ground, and the backrest was angled high enough so that he could look down at them with no problem whatsoever.

But what was he seeing, he asked himself again. It could not possibly be what he _thought_ he was seeing.

Paris purred as the man licked at the column of his neck, and then turned his head and looked at Hector.

“Hector,” Paris moaned. “This is… mmmm… Mnesus, from Paeonia.”

The man suddenly jerked, whipped his head, and stared at Hector. His jaw dropped.

But Paris held him tight when he made to move. He lowered his head to the man’s ear and whispered, so that Hector could hear, “It is all right. He is restrained.”

The man swallowed visibly, and then gasped heatedly as Paris’s tongue lapped at his ear. “I have something to show him,” Paris whispered, his eyes on Hector.

Hector found his voice. “Get these things off me, Alexandros,” his grated.

Paris looked over at him out of the corner of his eyes, and then narrowed them, as if trying to see that the restraints were holding.

Then he smiled slowly, and lifted his hips off the man’s – Hector would be damned if he remembered his name – and his erect cock gently settled against the other man’s erection.

The man threw his head back and grabbed Paris’s buttocks, his fingers sinking in deeply. Paris shifted, and pulled his hands off him, pushing the man’s arms over his head.

Hector watched the firm, golden curve of Paris’s backside shifting slowly from side to side, his hips moving as he feathered his erection against the man’s.

The man cried out in pleasure, and Hector bit down on his tongue, fighting the groan pushing its way up his chest. His cock was now so painfully hard he was afraid he was injuring himself permanently.

He braced himself with his feet flat on the floor on either side of the recliner and pulled hard at his restraints, but Paris had tied him down fast. Hector felt his mind wrecking. How had he let it come to this? That he would be tied to a chair by Paris and made to watch this nightmare while his body screamed for release…

Paris turned his head, and watched Hector for a moment. Then he smiled and slowly reached for an expanse of leopard fur lying to their sides, and pulled it over the backs of his thighs. But he left his backside uncovered.

Hector snarled deep in chest, and wrenched at his restraints, cursing himself for having torn such thick strips.

Then Paris slid down the man’s body until his mouth was inches from his dripping cock. He circled his hand around it.

“Send him away!” Hector hissed, the muscles on his forearms bulging as he strained against the strips of cloth binding him.

“I will not,” Paris murmured softly, smoothly pumping the slick cock. The man began moaning deliriously, his head thrown back, his body shuddering hard.

Paris’s half closed eyes roamed over Hector, and he licked his lips as Hector’s cock jerked in response. “Watch us, Hector,” he whispered, and the man’s cock disappeared into his mouth.

The man’s hips came off the fur beneath him, and his fingers sank into Paris’s curls. Paris pulled his hands off and brought them under his thighs, so that the man now grasped his own legs. Then Paris pushed, and the man’s legs rose into the air, his knees against his chest.

Paris slid the man’s cock nearly all the way out of his mouth, its shaft wet and glistening in the torchlight, and sucked on the head. The man thrashed and groaned, but never let go of his legs.

Hector stared, breathing harshly. His state of frustration had began to alter, and now his mind clouded with anger so intense he could not see straight.

With one final lick, Paris released the man’s cock and rose to his knees. He bent forward and whispered into his ear, and the man nodded mindlessly. Then he sat back up, and slid his hand around his cock, stroking gently.

Then he looked down at the man, his eyes ablaze.

“Xandros…” Paris whispered heatedly.

“Yes, Hector…” he man whispered back, reaching for Paris.

Hector’s heart pounded to a stop.

Paris stroked the tip of his wet cock against the man’s entrance. He leaned down over the man, supporting himself with one hand, and looked down into his eyes.

“I want to bury myself in you, Xandros…” he whispered softly, “to lose myself inside your heat… until nothing else matters…”

“Oh _gods_ , Hector!” the man howled, clutching up at Paris.

Paris circled his hand around the base of his erection, and gently pushed at the man’s entrance.

He closed his eyes, and groaned, “Suck me deep inside you, Xandros…”

But Paris had gone too far, and Hector was lose.

Paris gasped and grabbed at Hector as Hector slammed into him and pushed him off the man’s body. They both collapsed on the fur covered rugs.

Hector could form no coherent thought, except that he would wreck Paris.

His hands shook so badly he gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into Paris’s hips to steady them.

He pushed Paris unto his stomach and dragged his body over him. Then he hooked on arm under Paris’s right leg, and pulled his leg up, to the side. His other hand pushed into Paris’s hair, and pressed his head into the soft silk cushions.

“Hector—!” Paris shouted. But Hector only held him down tighter.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Hector could see that the man was now on his knees, tightly and rapidly stroking himself. His mouth hung open and he stared at them with lust-glazed eyes.

Hector could not make himself care. But once he was done with Paris, and if the man was suicidal enough to still be there, he would kill him.

Paris moaned, and moved under him, arching deeply. Hector heard himself growling, felt his body shift and thrust, and he was inside Paris.

Paris’s body clamped down on him and he wanted to howl like an animal. He gritted his teeth and dropped his head against the back of Paris’s head, letting his harsh breaths sink secretly into his brother’s ear.

“Is this what you wanted, you _creature_!” he grated feverishly. “You have shown your _skills_!”

His entire body shook as he held Paris down and rode him mercilessly. Paris convulsed wildly under him, and a moment later clutched Hector’s hand gripping his thigh. Then Paris's moans turned into an endless, delirious wail, and any pretense Hector had of control shattered.

Hector bellowed as his climax tore relentlessly through him. His body shuddered until there was nothing left in him, and he collapsed on top of Paris.

Hearing a gasp and a cry, Hector whipped his head around, to find that the man was still kneeling right next to them, panting harshly, his seed all over the fur in front of him.

Hector pinned his stare on him, and the man stared back like prey.

“ _Get out_!” Hector shouted, and the man shot to his feet, and fled.

Paris moaned softly under him, writhing.

“You have won both sides of the contest,” Paris purred, “using the skills of a warrior. A complete rout.”

He tried to turn over, but Hector pressed down on him, preventing him from moving.

“The contest is far from over.”

His mind was clear now. He had made a terrible mistake in letting Paris tie him up, and put him under his power. But now he was once again in control, and he was going to make Paris pay.

 _End_


	2. Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside Paris’s mind for a few moments after.

“You have won both sides of the contest,” Paris purred, “using the skills of a warrior. A complete rout.”

He tried to turn over, but Hector pressed down on him, preventing him from moving.

“The contest is far from over.”

Hector pulled at him until Paris was on his back and Paris’s breath caught as Hector’s huge body surged over him.

Hector slid his hands under the back of Paris’s knees and in one fluid motion pushed his knees up, and hooked his legs over his shoulders.

Then he slowly pressed down, pressing Paris’s knees into his chest. Paris felt his body melting under his brother’s hot weight, and moaned heatedly in submission.

Hector’s breathing was slow and deep as he slid an arm underneath Paris and pushed up, until his hand sank into Paris’s curls. Paris pushed back into his hand, keening as he felt Hector’s fingers grip and pull gently, firmly.

Paris burned, inside and out, feeling Hector’s controlled anger like a tangible force. With Hector in such a state, Paris knew he could take his punishment all night.

He felt the power of the goddess coursing through him, taking form in the shape of his body, opening his mind and filling it to overflow with Hector’s smell, weight, strength. Against his skin he felt the long cords of Hector’s muscles pressing and sliding, and inside his mind their flesh fused, and he submerged into his brother.

He twisted his head slowly against Hector’s gripping hand, his scalp awash in sensation. This was the only thing he desired in his life, floating in Hector’s hot embrace, knowing by his gifts he could make himself reach his peak whenever he wished, or delay it for as long as he desired.

“Hector…” he moaned softly, in love.

But suddenly Hector’s wet finger was pressing into him, stroking up on the tight knot of pleasure inside him. At the same moment Hector pulled on his hair, pulling his head back, and Paris felt the unfamiliar heat of Hector’s full lips sucking against his nipple... and Paris shot to his climax.

Clutching anywhere he could, surprised and unable to breathe, he erupted in short gasps, spurting his seed against Hector’s stomach for an eternity.

And when his head cleared, Paris stared up wide-eyed at Hector, shaking quietly. Never before had he lost control of himself.

His heart constricted in his chest and his hand flew up and gripped Hector’s russet locks spilling forward over his shoulder.

Hector pried Paris’s fingers lose, perfectly calm in the lessons he meant to teach, and pushed Paris on to his side.

Paris turned, and closed his eyes, and prayed the night would never end.

 _End_


End file.
